


Worn

by angededesespoir



Series: Reaper76 Week [3]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Blood, Canon-Typical Body Horror, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Multi, Serious Injuries, Trypophobia, murder of a young punk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-19
Updated: 2017-02-19
Packaged: 2018-09-25 11:10:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9817505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angededesespoir/pseuds/angededesespoir
Summary: Reaper tends to an Injured Soldier: 76.





	

**Author's Note:**

> _R76Valentines- Day 2- Gifts. (*Rolls in right after the event ends* Sorry, pals- depression is kicking my butt & I’m also doing way too many ship weeks.) Listen- An idea came to me & it was not a happy idea, but I rolled with it, and I’m sorry in advance._ 
> 
> _(Can also be read on[Tumblr](http://angededesespoir.tumblr.com/post/157416798980/worn).)_

He doesn’t know why exactly he’s doing this.  It goes against all logic to help this man, his enemy.

But when he sees some young punk knock the soldier to the ground, blows contacting and incapacitating, something snaps.

It’s like he’s back, decades ago, shielding a wounded Jack - _his_ Jack - from Omnics.  Except, this is no longer **his** Jack.  And instead of bullets penetrating metal, fingers tearing wires, his hand now engulfs a boy’s head, talons digging in, making him bleed more as he repetitively smashes him against the ground until the form no longer moves.  The others, having seen the frightening display of rage, have run.

They are wise.  

He feels the painful twinge of hunger, and a new battle in an ageless war begins.  He can consume the soul, steadily slipping away, or he can help Jack, who he feels fading- slowly, but still...... better not to waste time.

He growls as he turns towards the crumpled form of the soldier.  He quickly checks for any biotic canisters, but it appears that the usually overprepared strike-commander has used them all.  

He instead moves onto his second plan of action.  

He’s surprisingly gentle as he scoops the man into his arms.

He’s done this before. _(Too many times.)_  He scowls beneath his mask and pushes the feelings back down.  Now is not the time for reminiscing.  

(It’s never the time.  Not anymore.  It hurts too much to remember...what he had, what he lost, what he let slip away...what he could allow himself again, if he dared, if he fought back.)

He let’s himself slip into wraith form, keeps himself just solid enough to cradle Jack in his arms.  Despite this, he can still feel the blood seeping from the man’s wound, dripping onto him and trailing along the ground beneath them.

He cannot get back to his hideout fast enough.

\--

When he arrives, he rests Jack on the bed.  It doesn’t matter if the blood stains through.  He no longer requires sleep, so a bed is practically useless to him now.

He hurriedly gathers supplies, frustrated at his own urgency, at his own weakness.  That after all these years, he is still so eager to have this man’s back.  That protecting him comes far easier than hurting him.

He throws the supplies on the bed, crawls up, and begins to tear away at the damaged jacket.  He freezes, clawed fingers gently touching the fabric below.

It’s the old hoodie he’d given to Jack years ago.  The one that, before he’d handed it over as a gift, Jack used to swipe and curl up in.

It’s more faded than he remembers.  Patches of thin, off-coloured thread patched up holes left over the years.  But he can still make out the name, once his own, stitched into a corner of the fabric.

He knows how much this gift meant to Jack.  Even in the years when their relationship was in the process of falling apart, he’d still catch him wearing it.  
Sometimes, when he knew Jack wasn’t aware he was watching, he’d take in the sight of him brushing away tears, the liquid soaking through the material that had thinned with age.

The fact that Jack still has, let alone wears, this has his emotions flaring.  

Conflicted, he bites his distorted lip, pushes himself to act instead of dwell.  Because the fact of the matter is, Jack may be a strong man, but he is only mortal.

He makes haste, shedding off clothes, staunching the flow of blood, sanitizing and stitching up the wound.  When he’s done, he sits back, takes in the form- the flesh so pale and scarred.  

His heart hurts, knowing how many wounds could have been prevented if he had only stayed by his side, continued protecting him.

Against his better judgement, he finds himself moving to lay at the soldier’s side.  He presses against the still form, hands and smoky tendrils alike tracing scars.

Despite the differences of both of their bodies and the state of their current relationship, it feels so similar to old times.  Crowding into eachother’s hospital beds, watching over the other, soft murmurs and worry and above all...hope.

 _Hope._  A foolish thing.

He knows that as soon as Jack regains consciousness, he will run.  And they’ll be back to being enemies.

But for now...for now, he pulls the man closer, smoke curling and caressing.    
  
He doesn’t sleep, but he allows himself to dream.

\--

When Jack wakes up, it is to an empty room.  It smells like death and what he once called home.

The sheets beneath him are stiff with dried blood and his body aches, head spinning.

Through blurry eyes, however, he can make out a piece of clothing nearby- stained, but folded neatly.   New holes filled in.


End file.
